#southernfail

“We're sorry to announce that the 7.33 to London Bridge is cancelled due to a lack of train drivers. We apologise for any inconvenience caused."

As the commuters standing at Streatham Hill groaned and shot daggers at anyone they laid eyes on, the rostered driver of the 7.33, Janet, was only just waking up in bed. She wasn't alone.

She heard a snore to her left. Rubbing her eyes, she peered through the darkness. A ray of light caught a bald shiny head, and Janet made out the steady rise and fall of her lover's beer belly. Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered that Dick Felan was in her bed.

Her mood of self-congratulatory lust was somewhat broken when she heard a snore coming from her right, too. Suddenly, last night's ASLEF meeting came flooding back...

It started off much the same as last week. A bunch of guys in Southern Rail fleeces, planning the next socialist revolution from their plastic canteen chairs. Hardly any women of course--they were mostly deemed as a distraction from The Cause--but there were one or two allowed in to demonstrate to the outside world that the union believes in equality.

The evening’s meeting was all about who should control the button that open and closes the door on the trains--a very important issue. Not many people are capable of pressing a button, so it really did need to be debated who should do it. Dick bounced in through the canteen doors, and while the room stirred into attention, something else stirred in Janet’s undercarriage.

Dick’s rallying cry to members to vote for a strike mostly passed over Janet. Rather than stuffing the ballot box with ‘strike’ votes, she was thinking about getting her own ballot box stuffed--by Dick.

After he’d wheezed out his speech, much to the delight of the ASLEF members present as it recommended--surprise, surprise--a strike, Janet waddled over to catch him before he left.

“Nice speech,” she purred. “I’m always thinking about who should push my buttons.”

Dick wasn’t used to female attention--it’s one reason why he’s such an angry man--and choked slightly on his real ale. “Thanks,” he spluttered. Registering the tone in Janet’s voice, he quickly sensed an opportunity for a different type of strike--a strike to the heart.

“And how do you find the conductors on your services?” asked Dick, a twinkle forming in his eye.

“I find they never push them at the right time,” sighed Janet, moving closer. “Or with the right, uh, technique,” she said slightly breathlessly.

“That’s such a shame,” replied Dick, looking her up and down.

“Oh it is. As a result, my train doors have been shut when I’d really have liked someone to open them,” said Janet, casting a coy glance at Dick.

“I could conduct a personal investigation into the matter, if that’s what you’d like?” offered Dick. “I hate to see an under-used carriage.”  

“For a full investigation, you’d need to push my buttons yourself--we shouldn’t have a driver like me doing it all on my own,” said Janet, turning on all the animal magnetism she could.

But Dick had other ideas. He was always looking for a way of squeezing more out of any situation, usually how to cause maximum misery to commuters, but today he saw an opportunity to fulfil a lifelong dream.

“But you know, I did emphasise that, for safety reasons, a conductor must operate the button,” he said with faux-concern. “So if I were to inspect your buttons, I’d need a conductor there too.”

Janet was puzzled, until she saw where Dick’s gaze had wandered to. His eyes were resting on one of the few female conductors at Southern Rail, a woman called Donna. Janet recognised her from one of those God-awful “I love my job because every day is different” posters inside Southern carriages.

“Yes, I really would need a conductor present, to make sure your buttons are pressed properly,” Dick said, now salivating.

Blinded by lust, Janet agreed that both Dick and Donna could press her buttons. She didn’t even like girls, but to get Dick she was prepared to do whatever it took to snare the sexy General Secretary.

After a night of moving one way down the tracks, then another, the arguing about which tunnel the train should go in, Janet was exhausted--there was certainly no way she was turning up to drive that bloody train at 7.33. “What’s the big fuss anyway when we cancel trains?” wondered Janet. “It’s not like employers care if you don’t turn up to work,” not realising Southern aren’t quite like other employers.

The 8.12 train chugged into Gipsy Hill station at 8.17, and Janet was approaching ecstasy. It wasn’t just the usual vibrations she felt from the train’s engine on her undercarriage. No, as she gobbled her morning packet of Quavers and applied the brakes to the train, she thought back to last night’s ASLEF meeting--a meeting that set her mind on one track, and one track only.

Janet knew the union was a Boy’s Club, but it didn’t bother her. She was looking for a Thomas to tank her engine, her very own sexy union secretary to spice up her love life.

The meeting didn’t disappoint. She wiped her greasy fingers on her standard-issue Southern Rail fleece and prepared to explore her dark tunnel in the comfort of the train driver’s seat.

Despite the average age of the union members being around 55 and their conversation largely revolving around hard-Left socialist theory or whether it’s OK to strike because it’s raining, Janet couldn’t help but feel her loins quiver as she entered the room. She’d always enjoyed a larger man, and the train drivers of ASLEF had all the right handles for her to hold on to. All that sitting on their arses all day, all those discounted full-English breakfasts in the Southern Rail canteen (which most somehow charged as overtime)--they’d had quite the becoming effect on the union’s members.

And then she saw him: the legendary Dick Felan, the union’s General Secretary. Some say he keeps a copy of the Communist Manifesto inside his jockstrap at all times; others that he once went on strike for a whole year while somehow hoodwinking the system into paying him a giant salary. Either way, Janet felt the ticket barriers of her heart open of their own accord. She had to have him. “Dick by name, big dick by nature,” she thought hopefully, unwittingly echoing the thoughts of many a Southern passenger.

His intense, darting eyes, always looking for a Red Tory in his midst; his portly figure, rounded by years of fried bread and real ale; his shiny balding head… What a man! Janet was about to climax, when all of a sudden she heard an angry rapping at the window.

“Why the hell isn’t this train moving?” an angry passenger bellowed at her, his irate expression giving way to disgust not because he’d noticed where her hands were, but because that’s just how Southern passengers look at staff these days.

Hurriedly, Janet removed her hands from her size 18 jeggings and set the train in motion. It was 8.25 by the time it pulled out of Gipsy Hill station. “It’s less than a half hour delay--no compensation required, no harm done,” thought Janet. “The passengers probably won’t even notice.”